Thursday, September 3, 2009

Candy and Stellar Collapse

inside and out

I am an ever rotten and
rotting rainbow.

I enjoy eating

myself in public,

while simultaneously sucking
on the lollipop of failure

to kill myself; it is shaped like a word
and its shine is similar to that of a sad and sickening


Sometimes my ugliness
causes me to vomit all over those I supposedly
as they drink

in my melting color through
a very long straw; as they gaze
up at me and praise me
for my distinctive and divine

to grow knives out of my eyes.
It's all so nauseating
that it causes me to vomit a second time
in and endless

orgasm of refracted self-destruction.

In this way,
I have defied the inevitability of death and
will live forever

...just thought you should know.

Pink Blossoms on a Wolf's Tongue

Stills from Stellet Licht (Silent Light) by Carlos Reyagadas (2007)

born in the nucleus of
the Rabbit King

the poor in spirit brought warm winter soup
and lambs unto slaughter wore garlands around
their throats
and all the angels above sang light from

open wrists

but the baby just drooled on the ground
it just foamed from the mouth

like a rabid dog

it grew old as water's glow waned
and dug for treasures hidden inside its



and rose higher and farther into the sky until
in the womb of a black star,
it died

crying and laughing
at the same time

Wednesday, July 29, 2009





Vile are the hearts of all men
Everyman is an angel of the Lord
An angel of God, Most High, Glorious
upon a golden throne
in Heaven on earth;
and lawless is His army
Lawless and without body
Fire-walking to their ocean
Sqealing like snails
Salt in their torn shells
Praising their pain with cinnamon
flowers that twist skyward in

Reviling in their soil
Calling up from their rotten deathbed
Nipping at the final color of a fallen

Waves and waves
waves upon waves
of mercy
and of Spirit.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Rotten Soil

Gregory Crewdson, "Untitled (Ophelia)," 2001

You can't crucify a hummingbird.
No matter how hard you try.

But, if by a miracle, you succeed,
the image of it,
the sheer symmetry,
the divine sensibility of its form,
and the Truth that drips like blood from its beak
will snatch up your soul in rapture
and you will weep for the wrath of God,
the Almighty One:

Who cultivates the tusk of the Mammoth?
Who harvests the appetite of the Hawk?

Monday, May 25, 2009

Clumps of Matter, Inter Acting

a rock in the shape of a perfect sphere

turning in my stomach
defying its fate upon the lips of water
rejected by the dirt
(its mother, the whore)
receiving the fluids of plants and animals
sky and sea
the piss and tears from our little sun
the life-blood of time and space
turning in the center of me
denying its self

other people pass by
they put their hands in me
Onto the shape inside and
feel me like a bloated baby pig
prepare me for dissection
ask me questions about myself
(their hands still deciphering my sphere)
I go home and want to bathe
the afterbirth of normalcy
coating my neck
sitting on the top of my hand
talking to my face, saying:
"Let me enfold you--

and all of your senses
your pain is not real
I'll show you
wake up, swallow
breathe in and out
drink liquids
touch bodies
cut off your head
pretend to understand other people
while the fog of typicality
bleeds over your virgin eyes
like the sunrise dies
sleep, and
repeat this day after day
in precisely the same manner."

The life of the living dead
is interesting to the same extent
that it is interesting how static electricity
makes the hairs upon my arm
stand and then sit down again
stand and then sit down

But, me
I am a kitten
pawing at a ball of yarn
on fire

and I prefer this

Tuesday, May 5, 2009


Marcel Broodthaers' La Pluie (Projet pour un texte), Belgium, 1969
On a day
but not today
a lizard
wrapped its arms around the earth
each kiss from its lips
the cement we all sleep on craked a little
desert roses spouted 
from the spots where
it salivated
I saw this happen and approached it 
with a bit of wetness
in my eyes
But the lizard
crawled into the sea
I could not go there
My home was far away
I had to get home
to walk on my carpet 
with shoes
to move between walls
and create
the meaning I manufacture there
in my home
washes over me
over my whole and enticing body
while I sleep
in my bed
My appendages are made 
from industrial plastics
They smell like dead 
I bleed in technological terms
that you wouldn't understand
My body has been sterilized
and its fluids replaced 
with matter raped of motion
The things I build are aesthetic wonders
I stand
facing them as they face me
I cannot go away from them
They are my shelter 
from the stench of rain
and the diseased dirt
the viciousness of flowers
These things I make are more
massive than the ground of all
So as you can see
it was not possible for me
to go where the lizard went
Though I saw my reflection 
in its blue tears
as it slipped
into the ocean
and though I looked up 
from the ground and saw the sky
invite me in
I am only human

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Angel Pi, Lulla By

Francis Alys' Paradox of Praxis, Mexico City, 1997
little lamb
on the mountain
atop the sacred
and filthy mound
angel of death
above her cloudy crown
like a glass wing-ed fly
like a wasp on fire
to a God who is bleeding
the eyelids of a strong animal
a lullaby
in sleep will come